


Rain

by CallMeElle



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Arist AU, Barry Allen is a theater student, F/M, Iris West is just beautiful, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:18:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallMeElle/pseuds/CallMeElle
Summary: Rain is for lovers.





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first Flash fanfic! So please be kind :)  
> And it's mostly just smut because why not. *shrugs

Rain

_“Rain is for lovers.”_

When the message comes through, she is cocooned in her bedroom. Rain beats a steady rhythm against the pavement and, to her, the sound is music. Her room is lit by several flickering candles, all randomly placed on shelves around the space. From the window, a sort of gray light emanates from the sun, peeking through wisps of dark clouds. In front of her are the essentials: a laptop, a notebook, a multitude of pens.

She is at her most comfortable, in a sweatshirt that hangs off of one shoulder and tiny shorts that hug her hips. Her hair is pulled up on top of her head, dark curls falling from her bun. This is her element.

And then, the text message comes through.

Barry: Rain is for lovers.

Iris adjusts her glasses on her face, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She sends a response.

Iris: What are you talking about?

She doesn’t really know why she asks him that because she knows exactly what this is. She knows Barry. Before he responds, she sends another message.

Iris: Also, I thought you were supposed to be working.

Barry: I am working. But it’s raining and I thought of you.

Iris: Yeah?

Barry: Yes.

The response is a simple one, one so like Barry, and the sincerity of it still floors her.

Iris: So… “rain is for lovers.” Give me the rest of it.

Barry: I was going to. But I think I want to tell you later.

Iris: What? Why?

Barry: So that I can touch you.

It is a testament to her love for her work that she is able to distract herself after that. Her focus is, however, split: partly on the words in her notebook, some earlier writings she’s annotating as well as actual stories for school, one in particular she types furiously on her laptop in spurts; and then partly on him, Barry, excited for his return, for whatever he has planned. Excited just to be in his presence again.

************

Hours later, when she hears the front door open, she has moved to her bed from her window seat. Her notebook is settled on her lap as she sits cross-legged on the middle of her pearl gray comforter. There’s a strange excitement that follows the sound of the door slamming, a feeling not unfamiliar. It builds, as she listens to him walk loudly across the carpeted floors, as his feet hit the steps as he climbs. It starts in her belly, an almost nervous flutter, and moves up, up, until it sits, in her chest, swelling. Until she consciously has to take a breath.

She had abandoned all pretense of writing when the door first opened and, now, she just stares at the pages, the letters mere black characters on the white sheets. She has made it just a little bit easier for him, long ago discarding the shorts she had been wearing. It is just her and the overlarge sweater that hangs off of her in a way that shows nearly as much as it’s supposed to cover and a wisp of black silk that will only temporarily serve to separate her from him. The thing sitting in her chest flutters again.

And then he is leaning against the frame of the door.

She exhales when she sees him, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She looks up at him. He’s in what she supposes he wore to work at the bar: khaki joggers and a navy blue t-shirt. He looks good, she thinks, his pants clean against the long lines of his legs, the shirt stretching smoothly across his chest. It’s so simple, this look, but his hair is doing the thing she likes, waving and curling all over the place, deliberately messy. And his eyes are positively burning into her, intense in a way that’s not uncommon but still causes just a bit of panic every time she experiences it.

It’s not all his fault, she knows, that those are his eyes. They’re blue, but more: a gem, a promise. She is so focused on his eyes, on the way he is staring at her, that she can’t believe she misses the tantalizing scruff of facial hair, just enough to coat his jaw, just enough for him to run his obscenely long fingers through. Just enough that it tickles when he settles between her thighs.

She blinks at the thought.

“Hi.” He speaks first, his voice faint, nearly a whisper against the audible flicker of the candle wicks and the sound of the steadily pouring rain.

“Hey,” she responds.

He sort of smiles then, a half thing that lifts one corner of his mouth.

“I’ve missed you.”

There it is, the sincerity that he exudes so effortlessly. “Me too.” He pushes off of the wall and walks towards the bed. He sits down at the edge, one leg propped higher than the other, one foot on the floor.

“What have you been doing today?” His question is asked quietly.

She nods at the notebook in her lap, stretching her legs as she does so. Her toes just miss where his hands are perched on the bed.

“Just writing,” she says aloud. _And thinking about you_ , comes next in her mind but she doesn’t voice it.

“Oh.”

He’s still staring at her, mouth still lifted slightly, when she feels it, the scant touch of his fingers on her ankle. She jerks and looks up at him. Nothing in his expression changes, not the small smile he’s giving her, not his countenance, not even the look in his eyes. The only thing that’s different is the color of them, physically darker somehow, like his pupils are slowly dilating.

“Yes,” she breathes.

“What are you writing about?” he asks casually. His fingers, though, are lightly tracing her ankle, moving up, up, higher, until he’s rubbing her calf.

“I, uh…” she blanks on the question. “What’d you ask?”

“Writing.” He nods at her notebook. “What are you working on? Is it something personal or something for the newspaper?”

“Personal.”

“Hmm,” he hums.

“And you? You were supposed to be working but you weren’t?”

She thinks to Lou’s, the bar he’s working in while he finishes a dual arts degree in theater and poetry. It is where they met, him leaning over the counter, simultaneously flirting with her and writing poetry down on scraps of receipt paper.

“No,” he responds. “I was thinking about you.”

“And the rain.”

His lips tick up. “And the rain,” he confirms. He shifts on the bed, so more of his body is on top of the comforter, so he is closer to her.

“Barry,” she calls his name, softly, and for the first time, he looks wholly affected.

“Yeah, Iris?”

“Tell me about the rain.”

“Okay.”

He doesn’t move, though. Instead, he continues touching her, his fingers like tiny licks of fire on her already heated skin. She suddenly feels feverish in anticipation.

“Come here.”

She moves toward him automatically, noting the command that lies under the easy way he speaks. She finds herself half straddling him, one leg on his lap, the other behind him. He is still sitting sideways, body mostly facing off the ned, but he can touch her now, _really_ touch her now. He rests his hand on her thigh. Her notebook has been tossed to the side; her glasses placed on her beside. She waits.

His hand flexes against her flesh.

“Tell me about the rain, Barry.”

Her voice is quietly urgent.

 _“Rain is for lovers,”_ he speaks, finally, and he sounds like, like sex: hard and deep and dark and Iris finds that she can’t breathe again.

_“The wind chimes, like a song…”_

He moves, then, his whole body facing towards her. She doesn’t back away, instead widening her legs to allow him more comfort, reveling in the feel of his body close to hers. His shirt is slightly damp from the rain but his skin is warm to the touch. His face is right next to hers and she can see how blue his irises are, flecked with little bits of green.

_“...elegant--your voice in my ear lyrical as I come into you.”_

She gasps, blinking up at him. He keeps one hand on her thigh and the other he slips around the base of her neck.

 _“The raindrops…”_ he grazes at her collarbone, _“...sound like the rhythmic beat of your heart; the tap..”_

He clutches at her sweatshirt, hands slipping beneath the material.

 _“...tap, tap, that I can feel…”_ He leans closer, places his lips at her ear, almost touching, but not. _“...even in your thighs, when you’re on top of me.”_

She shivers against him.

_“Rain is for lovers.”_

In the background, there is still the rain, louder as it beats on the pavement. There’s still the flicker of the candles, the occasional clap of thunder that only heightens the mood.

His lips are at her ear. _“The sky darkens, and in your eyes, I find the sun…”_

His hand is on the skin of her waist now, easing up, easing up, until he flicks his thumb across her nipple. Iris inhales sharply.

 _“Bronze and gold…”_ He runs his thumb lovingly across her other nipple. _“...and all the colors my love for you holds.”_

At that, she straightens a bit, ducking her head so that she can catch his eye.

 _“Rain is for lust…”_ He says this and he’s looking at her and still touching her too, slow circles under breasts that seem to arouse her even more than his fingers on her nipples.

_“For slow moving hands, and bodies sliding in sheets, and the feel of you…”_

He leans closer to her, flush against her. He licks a path from her ear to a soft spot on her neck, and Iris shudders.

_“Rain is for the feel of you, coming around me.”_

Iris has no idea if he’s done, if he is finished reciting the words he so painstakingly crafted, probably on a napkin while he was at work. All she knows is that she loves him. She loves him, she desires him, and she is so fucking _wrecked_ by him that she needs release, immediately.

She closes whatever distance is between them, grabbing at his shirt as she leans back to lie completely on the bed. She’s pulling him with her--he has to adjust his position to fall on top of her--and then she is kissing him.

He tastes faintly of tequila, shots he probably took at the end of his shift with Cisco, but mostly he tastes like love and lust and sex. She clutches the front of his shirt with both hands because she needs to hold on to something, hold on to him. His mouth fits against hers, following her ministrations, eliciting moans that pull deep from her belly. Like he does, Barry kisses her back intensely, with his whole body. He is heavy on top of her, his mouth insistent, but his hands are roaming.

They’re at her waist, hot against her flesh, his grip so hard she won’t be surprised if he leaves a print. They’re on her belly, tracing light circles on her skin, making her squirm, flooding her core. Iris licks at his mouth, nibbles at his lips, soothing the light sting with her tongue.

She thinks, faintly, that this with him cannot be normal, this frenzied, fervent, heated thing between them. She feels consumed by him, what with the way that every part of her is alight with need, with a longing to be full of him. He has only kissed her, has only touched her, but her body is quaking, is melting, is flooded with arousal. His movements are erratic, like it’s more than he’s bargained for too, like he can’t figure out where he wants to touch her the longest. He settles for her waistband, fingers running slow across her lower belly. She feels him everywhere: in the curl of her toes, in the curve of her calf, in the quiver of her thighs. She feels him in the tightening of her stomach, in the heat of her sex. She feels him in the beat of her heart.

He is too much; her senses are overloaded. There’s the feel of him _everywhere_ , and there’s the rain that still pounds the window. It’s just all too much, but it’s not quite enough--she can never really get enough of Barry-- and she decides she needs him, inside of her, now.

Iris pulls away from his mouth, and he breathes against her, chest rising and falling heavily. He looks positively _destroyed_ , the red flush of his cheeks, his swollen lips, the lowered lids that do nothing to cover the dark blue his eyes have become.

“Iris.” Her name is a sigh from his mouth.

“Barry,” she responds, taking the same tone.

“Yes?”

She shifts more fully under him. “Fuck me.”

The world stops for a second. Barry closes his eyes, his enviously long eyelashes brushing delicately against his cheekbones. When he opens them again, there is a look of concentrated longing on his face.

“Tell me again.”

There is no hesitation. “Fuck me, Barry.”

A dam breaks then. Whatever control he thinks he had is gone. He doesn’t bother much with preamble. Iris thinks that he recognizes all the foreplay she ever really needed was to know that he was coming over. In a flurry of movements that she’ll fail to make sense of later, her sweater is pulled from her arms, his shirt ripped impatiently from him; he kicks his pants down his legs and she shoves at her panties. She’s moving too slowly, it seems, because he reaches down to help and they tear as they leave her body.

Then, they are both wonderfully, gloriously naked and Iris’ belly clenches again, this time with the anticipation of being full of him.

And then she is.

He slides into her, hard and pulsing, and she lets out a long, low moan. He pulls away, easing out of her.

“Barry, don’t you fucking…”

The grin he gives her can only be described as _wicked_.

“Don’t fucking..?”

He looks down at her, elbows on either side of her head, her thighs bracketing his hips. She can feel where he rests at her entrance, the tip of him already glistening with her slick. He nudges her, and _god, he’s so hard,_ and she shudders against the bed. Barry asks again,

“Don’t fucking..?”

Iris, tired of his game, makes a noise akin to a growl and squeezes his waist with her knees. In a practiced movement, she flips them and Barry’s eyes widen in surprise at being on his back.

“Baby, wh…”

His words are cut off as she sinks down on him. He’s so big in her and for a moment, she breathes, letting her body adjust to the feel of him. His hands go to her waist, steadying her on top of him.

Then, she moves.

Iris is slow at first, winding her hips, Barry holding on to her. The picture made is...beautiful, the entire scene something she wishes she could write so well. Her room is open, their clothes thrown haphazardly onto the carpet. Her window blinds are wide, but only the barest hint of the sun attempts to light the space. Candles still flicker, the smell of vanilla mixing with the faint smell of _them_. The rain still falls steadily, drumming a beat against her window pane. Iris seems to match that beat.

She begins to ride him in earnest him in earnest, ride him fast, ride him _hard_. His hands move lower, until her ass is firmly in his grasp. Her own hands move to cup her breasts, rubbing them, adding to her pleasure. Barry is vocal, holding her attention.

“Keep your eyes on me, Iris... _fuck_...just keep watching me.”

And everything about him is focused: his eyes are blazing, and he moves into her with a sharp snap of his hips, out of her with precision. His hands spread her ass and she sinks lower on his dick, until he’s buried to the hilt.

“Fuck, Barry,” she sings, winding her hips on him, clutching him hard.

“Iris,” he groans, a long, broken sound. “Do that again.”

“This?” she squeezes her cunt around him again, grinning down at him when he inhales sharply, his own stomach clenching with restraint.

“God, you’re fucking beautiful.”

Her grin turns softer, a smile, and she looks down at where they are joined. He’s so close to her, so deep in her, and there is something poetic about it. Her pelvis rubs against his, the curls of his pubic hair tangling with the dark, trimmed coils of hers. His skin is pale beneath the vibrant brown of hers and Iris bites her lip at the sight of them together.

It’s all so fucking hot. He is moving up into her, in a way that hints at the amount of control he has taken back from her, despite her dominate position. She’s so completely _soaked_ that every part of her feels wet, down to her thighs, covered in her own arousal. Iris thinks she’s been ruined for any other man.

The pleasure builds. He’s fucking her--his hands, one of them, has moved to tangle in her hair and the other keeps purchase on her ass-- and she’s fucking back into him.

Their hips meet in a capricious rhythm, the wet sound of him pushing into her, the clap of her ass hitting his thighs, the wet sound of him again. He flips her, her back hitting the bed with a soft thump. This angle pushes him deeper, and Iris cries out, a loud cry that mingles with the rain and Iris clutches at his back, anything to bring her back to earth.

In one hand, he holds both of her wrists above her head and she widens her thighs, letting him sink deeper, deeper.

“Tell me,” Barry says, almost conversationally. “Tell me this is mine.”

He does something interesting with his hips, grabbing her thigh with his free hand. She closes her eyes and doesn’t answer, falling into the feeling. He seems harder somehow, thicker, his dick pulsing wildly against her walls. He reaches down and thumbs her clit.

“Iris,” he moans. “Tell me this is mine.”

He snaps into her, and he hits her spot, once, twice, right there, right there…

“It’s yours, Barry. _God, I’m yours.”_

He doesn’t miss the I’m.

“Yeah?” he smiles down at her. “You’re mine?”

Iris can only nod at him, emotions swelling in her chest. They’ve never said the words--the _i love you, i love you too_ \-- but Iris knows what she feels when he looks down at her like this, soft and tender as he moves inside her body; she knows what she feels when every move he makes causes her to respond to him.

“I’m yours too, you know,” he tells her, his gaze heart-felt.

And it’s all a little more than Iris can handle at the moment, so she buries her face in his neck and bucks her hips against him.

“Just fuck me, Barry,” she whispers against his skin.

So he does, hitting her spot again, over and over, over and over.

When she comes, she thinks there might be lightning to accompany the warm feeling that permeates, that imbues her entire being. She thinks it flashes in his eyes too, especially when he comes on the cusp of her orgasm, his sex throbbing until he’s fully spent inside of her.

He falls on top of her, sated, his breathing heavy and labored. He doesn’t move immediately and she basks in the feel of him wrapped around her, still inside her.

Outside, the rain falls steadily.

_"Rain is for us."_

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! This is only my second fanfic ever, but I adore WestAllen and I love the fics I've read in this fandom!  
> I'm considering expanding this fic to show these two in this AU where Barry is a Theater student and Iris is a Creative Writing student.  
> If you think it's something I should explore, please do let me know. If not, I hope you enjoy this. :)


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